Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Cutting-room Floor





The pen weighs heavy in her hand
Reluctant to heed thought’s command
As minuet and silhouette
Scatter like shards on living’s sand
And where a moment used to be
She sifts its air for poetry

An echo of a laughing child
Or haste’s redemption; tears run wild
Raging repentance and romance
Are intricately reconciled
And hope aligns with sympathy
Lacing the air with poetry

There is no ocean in a shell
No turning back after farewell
We face the morn; past’s pages torn
To drift in thought’s infinite swell
Where now and then passion runs free
Splashing the air with poetry

She leans upon her staff of ink
And where dusk drained the day of drink
Dawn breaks through bars of blue and stars
Life's cutting-room is bathed in pink
Soon it will fade to what must be
Of memories and poetry


© Janet Martin


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